


The Process of Healing

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th Century Medicine, Canon Era, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 13:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20359147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: Combeferre shut his eyes at the bump and jolt of the diligence, flinching against the throb of his head. Hadn’t it been just a few hours ago that he had been cheerful and well, bidding his parents and sister goodbye after a week spent in the sunshine of Annonay? Though he was occasionally prone to sickness while traveling, his body disagreeing with the sway of the carriage, he had been perfectly fine the entire journey from Paris to the Midi. Perhaps the roads on which they now traveled were rougher, badly maintained, or perhaps it was because he and Enjolras were squeezed in the back, the bumpiest compartment of the coach. That would explain it, he thought. Surely once the journey was over, the illness would quickly pass.On a trip to Le Puy-en-Velay, Enjolras and Combeferre explore various types of healing.





	The Process of Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marschallin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/gifts).

July 1831

Combeferre shut his eyes at the bump and jolt of the diligence, flinching against the throb of his head. Hadn’t it been just a few hours ago that he had been cheerful and well, bidding his parents and sister goodbye after a week spent in the sunshine of Annonay? Though he was occasionally prone to sickness while traveling, his body disagreeing with the sway of the carriage, he had been perfectly fine the entire journey from Paris to the Midi. Perhaps the roads on which they now traveled were rougher, badly maintained, or perhaps it was because he and Enjolras were squeezed in the back, the bumpiest compartment of the coach. That would explain it, he thought. Surely once the journey was over, the illness would quickly pass.

Having managed to procure a most desirable seat in the carriage, one of the back corners, Enjolras had promptly fallen asleep leaning against the wall, unable to be roused. Though Combeferre would ordinarily have missed their conversation, perhaps it was just as well — he did not trust himself to open his mouth with the way his stomach was churning.

Enjolras must have been exceedingly content. Combeferre would have been as well, had he been able to think of anything at the moment besides how poorly he was feeling. Months ago, Enjolras had established a more formal communication with a group of stone masons in Le Puy-en-Velay. A sympathetic society, though not yet solidly formed, these were men who belonged to what once had been the Enjolras family business. Though the Society of the Friends of the ABC had not expected much more from them than occasional news from the South, the masons had gathered together a small network of contacts themselves. Recognizing that the most profound changes in France would begin and end in Paris, they had rallied, managing to procure some supplies for Enjolras and his friends. It would not be much — some bullet molds and a small cask or two of gunpowder — but it would be something, and easy enough to transport back to Paris hidden in an extra traveling bag.

Enjolras was not one to pass up an opportunity like this one. As he and Combeferre were already planning to spend a short time in Annonay, it would take very little to travel to Le Puy as well to meet the transport of supplies. Night had fallen by now; they could safely go to the mason’s workshop as soon as their diligence arrived to pick up the items before spending the night in the Enjolras family home, all inhabitants of which were currently traveling abroad. It was all simple, satisfying, but as the carriage lurched again, all Combeferre could do was wish for the journey to be at an end.

Half an hour later he got his wish as they trundled their way through the main entrance of the city, halting not long after as the diligence arrived at its designated station. At last Enjolras stirred, blinking blearily around in a way that would have ordinarily brought a fond smile to Combeferre’s face.

“We’ve arrived?”

Combeferre could only nod, and felt somewhat dismayed that he could not fully appreciate the soft and sleepy smile Enjolras gave him then, something that should have warmed him through. He could not wait to get out and let the unpleasant journey blow off of him, and he was grateful for the fresh breeze as they clambered down from their compartment and waited for the conductor to drag their luggage from the imperial at the top of the diligence.

Though dark, it was not unreasonably late in the evening, and so eager was he to complete their business, Enjolras had sent a letter ahead of them days ago, informing the masons that he and Combeferre would meet them immediately following their arrival. Knowing they were expected, they set off, carrying their bags. Combeferre followed in Enjolras’ long stride as well as he could, hoping that the nausea, the murky ache in his bones, would cease soon. Luckily, both the architectural workshop and the Enjolras family home were both in the center of the city, in close proximity to each other and near where they had disembarked the diligence. Within several minutes, they were nearing their first destination.

The workshop was made obvious that evening by the steady lamplight shining into the street from its windows, a stark contrast to the rest of the businesses nearby, most of which were already closed, or else whose shopkeepers were just finishing tidying and locking up for the night.

As they approached, Combeferre could see men inside apparently still hard at work, speaking with each other, leaning over the tables laden with notes and plans for building projects. However, his years of involvement in the Friends of the ABC had taught him to see the true circumstances even in his unwell state. Though cloaked in the excuse of working late, these men were truly waiting up for Enjolras and Combeferre’s arrival. As believable as the ruse was, Enjolras paused at the door, glancing to both sides to ensure they remained unnoticed. Satisfied, he entered, with Combeferre following close behind.

The masons looked up from their work, ceasing their conversations upon hearing the door open and then close behind them, and then gathered around to greet them. Combeferre tried his best to return handshakes and salutations with a smile, though a flush now seemed to have crept throughout his body. It was an effort to keep himself upright through a sudden lightheadedness; this motion sickness was certainly taking its time to dissipate. Trepidation pricked him then, but he pushed the notion aside. Surely he could not be sick with something else.

Before he could dwell too much upon the subject, Enjolras put a hand on his shoulder, casting a concerned glance his way. He must have looked far away in thought, and shook his head to indicate he was ready. With that, Enjolras turned his attention to the men around them.

“I’m pleased to see you all again,” said Enjolras, his smile small but no less charming for it. He spoke to them with familiarity, having known many of the older men since he had been a child, besides having corresponded with the leader of the group. This was a man by the name of Bernard, a stocky and black-haired fellow in his mid-thirties, who Enjolras addressed next. “We are grateful you were able to procure supplies for us. After our disappointments a year ago, we have been working to rebuild our forces, but it is difficult. Several of our usual suppliers have disappeared, or else given up the cause entirely. Might you have the molds and powder here? It will all fit in our extra valise, I expect.”

Bernard hesitated for a moment before he spoke up. “I’m sorry to say, Monsieur Enjolras,” he said, overly formal with a tinge of diffidence. “-it has not yet arrived.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Hasn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Bernard frowned and shook his head. “We had expected it on time. We have an association with another group of masons in Langogne — that is where the conveyance of goods was sent before it was supposed to come here.”

“That should not take more than half a day’s travel,” said Combeferre, placing a shaking hand on the back of the chair to prevent himself from wobbling. As his hand closed on the wood, his joints in his fingers throbbed with pain. “Less, if the roads are well-mended.”

“Yes,” agreed Bernard. “I can’t explain it. They were set to arrive early this morning but they never came, and I’ve not received any news of their progress. I pray they were not found out, or otherwise waylaid.”

There was a pause during which Enjolras and Combeferre looked at each other, before Bernard asked, “Do you plan to stay for a while? I know you are both busy in Paris.”

“We are busy, but not so much that we cannot wait a few days,” said Enjolras. “We will be staying at my family’s house — you know the one. Will you send word to us, if you receive news?”

“Of course. But won’t you stay with us a little longer?” said Bernard, clearly eager to make it up to them somehow. “The cafés have all closed for the night, but we might stay here and have a glass of wine or two.”

For a moment, Combeferre thought hard about how to politely refuse, so eager was he to go to bed, but Enjolras had cast him another glance and then, as though he had assessed his condition, said decidedly, “I think not, Monsieur Bernard. Perhaps another time, but we would both like to rest after our journey.”

Bernard accepted the refusal gracefully, and after exchanging goodbyes Enjolras and Combeferre set off again, bound for one of the houses a few streets away. Once they were out of view of masons’ window, Enjolras slipped a warm hand into Combeferre’s, though he did not speak, seemingly lost in thought. For his part, all Combeferre could think of was a warm bed, and of sleeping well into the morning.

He had been to Enjolras’ childhood home twice before; the latter visit had been some months previously when they had first visited the masons. It was a true city house, three floors and thin, situated on a populous street and capped with the red-tiled roof that characterized so many of the buildings in Le Puy-en-Velay. Combeferre had pleasant memories of his visits there, not least because he and Enjolras had spent many evenings of the last one sneaking into each other’s rooms after the rest of the house had gone to sleep.

The whole of the house was tastefully decorated with fine furniture and dark wood, with a large grandfather clock in the foyer, richly colored rugs, and several old and fragile vases. There were also several paintings, mostly landscapes and pastoral scenes, though the tidy sitting room was home to Combeferre’s favorite: A large portrait of Enjolras, ten years old, chubby and perfectly cherubic. On their previous visits to the house, Enjolras had borne Combeferre’s amusement at the painting with a stolid patience and before their hellish carriage ride, Combeferre had been quite looking forward to seeing it again.

Presently, however, his heart sank as Enjolras lit a candle upon entering the house, and made his way to the sitting room. It was all Combeferre could do to stand upright, but he followed him all the same.

“Disappointing,” said Enjolras, setting his candle down above the fireplace. The scant flame illuminated the portrait above, but Combeferre was too dizzy to appreciate its charm. “There is nothing we can do, I suppose, but be patient. Unless there was some way to contact the masons’ allies, and discover the whereabouts of our supplies.”

Combeferre swallowed thickly, and interrupted. “Can we discuss this further later?”

These words seemed to pull Enjolras out of a reverie. He looked at Combeferre with a tinge of guilt. “If you wish it. Is there something-“ But he did not have time to finish the question before Combeferre swayed where he stood, overcome with weakness. Enjolras reached out a hand to steady him, a grip that turned into a caress against his shoulder as Combeferre took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. It was the diligence-“ Combeferre began, trying for a shaky laugh, but Enjolras shook his head. His gaze upon Combeferre was penetrating, as though he could sense Combeferre’s hopeful lie.

“I’ve kept you up too long,” he said quietly. “You can tell me, you know, when you are feeling ill. Come, let’s go to bed.”

* * *

The following morning, Combeferre woke up terribly groggy and was dismayed to discover, despite Enjolras being pressed warm and snug against his back, he felt no better than the previous night. The lightheaded nausea had dissipated somewhat, but it was replaced by something else — a deep ache all over, congestion in his chest, and a heavy, consuming fatigue. Though overly hot beneath the bedclothes, a sharp chill ran through his body. At last, he would have to accept what his symptoms meant.

What he had thought — _hoped_ — was mere sickness from traveling was actually influenza. He had all the classic symptoms of it. Combeferre grimaced and buried his face in the pillow. Though illness could never be well-timed, especially with his multitude of responsibilities, this was particularly unfortunate. Though the shipment of supplies was expected to be small enough for Enjolras alone to handle, and the masons were at hand to assist, should he need more help Combeferre would be of little use.

And then, he realized, with an unpleasant sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, there was the matter of their current location. The thought made him more concerned with Enjolras than with himself, knowing that however unfortunate this illness was, _his_ at least seemed to be relatively mild. It was true that Enjolras did not speak of his parents much, but Combeferre knew that influenza had struck before in this house, and with much more terrible consequences.

Behind him, Enjolras drew in a deep breath, the sort that was meant to rid one of sleep early in the morning, and drew yet closer to him. Despite how low Combeferre felt, it was hard not to be pleased when he felt lips press briefly against the back of his neck.

“Good morning. Are you feeling any better?”

“Marginally,” Combeferre managed to say. His voice was hardly a croak.

“Hmm.” Enjolras raised himself on an elbow, and Combeferre rolled onto his back to look up at him. “It was not from the diligence, was it?”

“No. I- I suppose it’s something else.”

Combeferre could not meet his eye, but he did not have to — he did not have to say the word for Enjolras to know what he meant. A shadow of worry passed over Enjolras’ face.

“Perhaps it is well that our supplies are late, considering it will give you several more days to recover.”

“Hopefully I will be well enough when the supplies arrive to help you retrieve them.”

“Leave the supplies to me. You need to rest.”

Combeferre wrinkled his nose. “How I hate to be useless.”

Enjolras smiled, and even in the midst of illness Combeferre drunk in the sight of him, all tousled hair and soft, sleepy eyes. “You could never be useless. You always manage to achieve something, no matter the circumstances.”

“I’m not sure how I can, now that I- Well-“ Combeferre frowned. It was sudden, but Enjolras’ words had coalesced into an idea, banishing some of the disappointment and replacing it with excitement. He could not be surprised at that, when it happened so frequently in Enjolras’ presence. The idea was perfect — an opportunity to be useful on one side and a distraction from worry on the other.

Enjolras caught the particular gleam in Combeferre’s eye and, with raised brows, asked, “Is there something I might do to help you?”

“Yes. If you bring me a pencil and paper, I do have a few things you might pick up for me,” said Combeferre, sitting up in bed despite Enjolras’ noise of disapproval. “There is an apothecary near here, isn’t there?”

* * *

”This will not be an ideal experiment,” Combeferre said hoarsely. He was sitting at the long table in the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing gown and blanket, and watching Enjolras frown down at the array of supplies Combeferre had sent him to purchase, all unwrapped and laid out before them. Evidently deciding he needed some sort of fortification before they began, Enjolras turned away to make coffee. Combeferre continued, “Trying a number of treatments on only one person in such a short period of time — it might not be clear what is working. But I suppose it is the best we- we-“ He broke off as a fit of coughing seize him.

Enjolras’ frown deepened at both his words and the cough. “I do not like the idea of experimenting on you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Combeferre managed, catching his breath. “It is not as though I’m going to have us do anything outlandish. We are simply looking for the most effective treatment — a known treatment, mind, not anything I myself have invented. Come, what else are you going to occupy yourself while we wait? Surely you don’t plan on going along the road to Langogne and looking for the shipment yourself?”

Enjolras actually seemed to consider this for a moment, but finally he said, “No, not with you so unwell.”

“Then you will help me?”

“I think I indulge you too much,” Enjolras said, lowering his eyes to the coffee percolator as the water began to boil within it, though he smiled all the same. “I am always slightly afraid of what you will have me do when I help you.”

“You always end up helping anyway,” said Combeferre. “You believe in scientific progress as much as I do, Enjolras, though you yourself do not study it — I know.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, to assess the ingredients they had at hand. “And again — you’ll likely have heard of these treatments before, or even had them done to you, as we are merely assessing which works best. Traditional treatments like mustard baths, bloodletting-“

Enjolras’ smile faded. “Not bloodletting.”

“And why not? It balances the humours, drains the body of poisons, stimulates the blood-making organs — it’s quite effective against all manner of ailments.”

“Bloodletting does nothing for influenza.”

Combeferre was about to object, to say that it was a standard treatment he had used countless times on his own patients, but something in Enjolras’ voice made him fall quiet. He looked at Enjolras carefully, at the strain at the corners of his mouth as he looked down, carefully pouring out the coffee into two cups.

Guilt twisted inside of him. “All right,” he said. “No bloodletting, then.” In any case, Enjolras had neglected to procure the fleam and fleam stick Combeferre had asked for — deliberately so, it seemed.

“Good.” Enjolras set a steaming cup in front of Combeferre. “In that case, where do you propose we begin?”

“Hmm.” Combeferre took a sip of his coffee and, deciding it needed to cool, set it down again in favor of taking up a bottle of laudanum instead. “Perhaps we ought to start with the mustard treatments. They have been used for years, and there are at least two we might try.”

Enjolras’ mouth twitched. “It seems as though you’ve already started with the laudanum.”

“Well, yes,” Combeferre replied, somewhat sheepishly. “Laudanum is another panacea of sorts.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I suppose we will need more hot water, then, for the mustard treatments.”

“Yes. Here, let me-“ But Enjolras waved him off, and Combeferre was relieved to see the smile back on his face.

“No, just sit. Take your laudanum and let me do the rest.”

* * *

A quarter of an hour later, Combeferre was feeling very warm and sleepy indeed, having wrapped the blanket closer around himself despite his fever. If nothing else worked, he thought idly, at least opium made one not mind one’s symptoms so much. Through a pleasant haze, he watched Enjolras, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, set the boiling kettle aside and take up a mortar and pestle. Combeferre chuckled aloud then — Enjolras’ hair had fluffed up from the steam.

Enjolras merely looked up at him, bemused. “How finely shall I grind this mustard?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Combeferre waved a hand, and tipped in his seat. “Well, perhaps it does. Just grind it finely- finely enough to mix well in the hot water.

Enjolras did so, crushing up the mustard seed until it was a fine powder, before rummaging around in one of the cabinets for a basin. Having found one, he blew the dust out of it and placed it on the floor at Combeferre’s feet.

“Just the water and mustard? Anything else?”

“No, that’s everything.” Combeferre kicked off his house slippers and flinched as Enjolras poured the hot water into the basin and over his feet. Enjolras hesitated.

“Is it still too hot?”

“No, no-“ In stark contrast to the heat of the water and his fever, a chill ran through Combeferre’s body. “I’ll adjust soon enough.”

Enjolras carefully poured in the rest of the water, and then dumped the powder into the basin. As it swirled around, the pungent odor of mustard rose up from it, causing Combeferre to sneeze and reach into his dressing gown for a handkerchief. Enjolras wrinkled his nose.

“What exactly is this supposed to do?”

“It draws heat away from the organs, away from the congestion in the chest.” Combeferre blew his nose loudly. “And increases circulation of the blood. Though it can take a while to work, evidently.”

“We can wait as long as you like,” Enjolras assured him, stepping closer to run a hand over his back. “And even if we receive word today that our supplies have arrived, we might stay here longer — until you are well.”

This was said with Enjolras’ usual even tone, but Combeferre caught the note of worry in his words. He wondered again at how much Enjolras has been affected by his parents’ fate, and whether the pain from it was as acute as when it had occurred some twelve years ago. He caught Enjolras’ hand in his own.

“Truly, Enjolras, you needn’t concern yourself too much. This is a very mild bout of influenza. I have seen, and indeed _been_, much worse than this. If I was really, gravely ill, do you think I would insist upon this experiment instead of remaining on bedrest?”

“Yes, I believe you would. And if you believe I am capable of being unconcerned for you, the laudanum has affected you more than I thought possible.” Enjolras pressed Combeferre’s hand. “In any case, you- you should eat something. Here, I bought a few things.”

Combeferre held Enjolras’ hand to his cheek briefly before letting it go.

Along with the medicinal ingredients, Enjolras had procured a small stock of food for the day: Cheese and fruit and a few baked items. They sat side by side at the table, Combeferre’s feet still soaking in the mustard water as they ate, speaking only a little on lighthearted subjects. Whether it was the laudanum or the company, Combeferre hardly noticed the passage of time, and only realized how long they had idled after the water in the basin was cold.

“How do you feel?” asked Enjolras, watching Combeferre shift in his chair to remove his feet from the water, excess liquid dripping down into the basin.

Combeferre assessed his symptoms for a moment and replied, “The same, I’m afraid. I confess I did feel a little better at first — not quite so chilled. Mustard has a heating property, you see.”

“I do see,” said Enjolras, frowning down at him. “Your feet are red.”

“That might have been the warm water too,” Combeferre tucked his feet under the chair to prevent Enjolras from looking further. “But whatever effect the mustard bath had has passed, I’m afraid.” He thought for a moment. “Did we use up the whole of the mustard you bought?”

“Yes.”

“Pity.”

Enjolras leaned back in his chair. “Why is that?”

“I was only thinking that we might try something else with it — a mustard plaster. I’m sure you’ve had one, haven’t you?”

“Of course. But it’s not the most pleasant-“ Enjolras cut himself off and sighed, evidently aware that trying to dissuade Combeferre was a battle that could only be lost. “The shops should still be open. I’ll go and buy more mustard.”

Enjolras was out to the apothecary and then back within the hour with a fresh supply of mustard seed. Immediately, he set to work making the plaster.

“I suppose it must be ground as finely as in the bath?”

“Ideally, yes — though you should add only a little water. Enough to make a spreadable paste, you see.” Though his scientific enthusiasm had not waned, Combeferre’s energy certainly had. He slumped a little in his chair, watching Enjolras grind the mustard and pour in a splash of warm water. Once finished mixing it vigorously with a spoon, he indicated Combeferre should lift his nightshirt with a gesture of his hand.

“How long do you plan to keep this on you?” Enjolras asked as he spread the paste onto Combeferre’s chest. His fingers brushed over a collarbone, and though Combeferre would have normally experienced a pleasurable shiver at this, he presently suppressed a grimace. Already, the mustard was beginning to itch and sting.

“All night, I think.”

Noticing Combeferre’s flinch, Enjolras said, “Surely that is too long a time.”

“Not at all — or at least, it is still within the recommended range of time. It needs an ample chance to work.”

“Hmm,” said Enjolras, though he refrained from commenting further.

The pair spent the remainder of the day in the sitting room, ensconced in armchairs, Enjolras reading and Combeferre attempting to doze when he was not busy coughing or shivering with fever. He was too ill to even look much at the portrait above the fireplace, and more than once, he caught Enjolras’ drawn expression turned towards him. At this, he attempted to hide his discomfort, pretending he was not both chilled and hot, that every movement did not pain him.

When he could bear it no longer, Combeferre suggested they retire early, though he doubted he would get much sleep with the sting of the mustard to add to his aches and congestion. Enjolras readily agreed, and after they were tucked up in bed, Enjolras turned to embrace him, but came up short. Though the expression was fleeting, quickly stifled, Combeferre caught the disconcerted look on Enjolras’ face when he drew near.

Combeferre tried to laugh but it turned into a bout of coughing. “I smell just awful, don’t I?” he asked once he could speak again.

“Not awful,” said Enjolras quietly. “Merely-“

“Pungent? Ripe? Rank?”

Enjolras smiled. He looked so tired, Combeferre thought, surprised that he had only now noticed. “As long as it is making you well again, I don’t care how you smell.”

Combeferre found Enjolras’ hand beneath the covers, and held it. “How glad I am to hear that,” he said lightly. “I would hate it if all my experimentation drove you away from me.”

Though Combeferre expected a rejoinder in response, Enjolras merely leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and settled back into the pillows. “It does not matter to me,” he repeated. “As long as you are well.”

* * *

The following morning, Enjolras sat a still exhausted Combeferre at the edge of the bed and, washbasin and cloth at hand, gently wiped away the mustard plaster. Though the cloth he used was soft, Combeferre winced as it touched him, and Enjolras frowned as the dried paste came away to reveal red, irritated skin.

“You’ve left it on for too long.”

“Leaving it on all night is the usual procedure,” Combeferre reminded him, with one more flinch as Enjolras removed the last of the plaster. “Especially if one wants to maximize the plaster’s benefits.”

“Did it make you feel any better?”

“Not- not especially. No more than the foot bath, I suppose — a temporary relief from some of the symptoms.” Surprised at how terribly crestfallen Enjolras looked at his reply, Combeferre took his hand and, trying to minimize the rasp in his voice, said quietly, “I never wished to cause you pain, Enjolras — in doing this study nor in anything else.”

Enjolras smiled, but there was strain around the edges of his expression. “Are you apologizing to me for being ill?”

“Not at all, but-“ Combeferre swallowed, his throat working hard against the inflammation within it. There was no easy way to approach a conversation they had hitherto only danced around. “I do not wish to dredge up any painful memories of this disease, in this house.” He nearly asked, _“Was it awful?”_ but cut himself off from voicing a question with so obvious an answer.

Enjolras sighed and turned this eyes to the ceiling for a moment. He looked truly angelic, then, with the morning light framing him — something that should have caused Combeferre’s heart to warm rather than sink. “I do not mean to express such sensibility. It was a long time ago. I know, logically, that though the disease is the same you are not as seriously ill, that even if none of the treatments work, you will be fine within the week, but-“

A confused mix of emotion struck Combeferre, then — contrition and melancholy and something that was very nearly ire. “You needn’t look at this subject from merely the standpoint of _logic_, Enjolras. I do not wish you to worry, but expressing sensibility is not an undesirable thing.”

Enjolras merely looked down again, and did not meet his eye. “Come — let us go downstairs, and I will get you something to eat.”

They settled in the sitting room rather than the kitchens. Sitting on a wooden stool for so long the previous day had done nothing for the aches throughout Combeferre’s body, and he was only too happy to curl up next to Enjolras on a comfortable sopha instead, wrapped again in a blanket. In any case, Combeferre did not have plans to mix up any more concoctions for now, and thought it was best to wait until the discomfort of that morning’s conversation had dissipated before continuing in his plan.

The pair did not speak on the subject again. Instead, they ate what was left of the food from the previous day in silence, and then spent a few hours reading, making the occasional remark to one another. From time to time, Enjolras would stand to gaze out the window, sometimes walking to check the door as though he expected a message to be slipped beneath it.

Finally, he sat down again next to Combeferre and said, “You have not mentioned the continuation of your experiment today. But I’m sure you have something in mind?”

“Yes. Calomel.” Enjolras stared at him, and Combeferre coughed. “Mercurous chloride. It’s a purgative.”

“I know what it is,” said Enjolras gravely. “But a purgative is an extreme measure for so mild an illness, is it not?”

“It all depends on what the illness _is_,” said Combeferre, shrugging as he leaned into his friend’s shoulder. “As, _euh_, I am not permitted to balance the humours using other methods, I thought this one would be acceptable to you. You bought some, didn’t you?”

“You asked me to do so. How much of it do you plan to take?”

“Usually five _grains_ is the maximum dosage,” said Combeferre, though in the face of Enjolras’ somber expression, he quickly added, “I will take only one, however — a mild dose for a mild illness — and follow it with a saline solution an hour or so later. That should not be too bad.”

Regardless of these optimistic words, once calomel and saline were both taken, Enjolras was left to his own devices while Combeferre spent the next two hours barricaded in the lavatory, adamantly refusing Enjolras entry.

When evening had fallen and Combeferre at last felt well enough to wobble back out, he found Enjolras still in the sitting room, attempting to read. He looked up from his book when Combeferre entered, and set it aside with a sort of sympathetic expectation.

“Any better?”

In lieu of answering, Combeferre miserably shuffled over to the sopha and curled up next to him. Enjolras wrapped an arm around him.

“I take it you still haven’t any news of our supplies.”

“Nothing at all,” said Enjolras, making small, comforting circles over Combeferre’s shoulder with his thumb. “I was thinking that I ought to perhaps send a message to Bernard.”

“You might,” said Combeferre. “But I’m certain he would have contacted you immediately if he had had any news at all.”

“That is true. And it is not as though we need to return to Paris just yet — especially with you still ill.” He paused, and then said, “I’m sorry none of your treatments have made you better. Perhaps it is better that you merely rest and wait for recovery.” He smiled. “Of course I would be happy to bring you anything you needed while on bedrest.”

“Well-“ Combeferre bit his lip, then said diffidently, “I- I have not quite given up yet.”

Enjolras’ brow furrowed. “Your persistence is admirable as always, Combeferre, but I can hardly believed a burnt chest and an afternoon spent locked in the lavatory has done nothing to dissuade you. Are you certain you are well enough for more of this?”

Combeferre waved a hand. “The skin irritation has cleared considerably since this morning, and the purgative’s effects have passed, as I took so little of it. As to whether I am well enough for more _doctoring_ — of course.” To assuage any of Enjolras’ lingering concerns, he added, “The treatment I have in mind is not an extreme one.”

“And what treatment is that?”

“Cold,” said Combeferre simply. Enjolras’ expression cleared somewhat at the answer. “I read a pamphlet by a particular Scottish physician — a Doctor Currie, I believe — which advocated for the use of cold as a cure. He was speaking of cold water, but stated that cold air is a suitable alternative. That is good for us; cold water is so hard to come by in summertime.”

“That sounds like a promising treatment,” Enjolras said. “Considering your fever. But after that, I advocate putting you to bed. That might do you more good than anything we’ve attempted so far.”

“That’s fair,” said Combeferre, rising to his feet once more and leading the way towards the stairs. “Just let me try this for a little while — half an hour at most, and then I’ll do as you say.”

Once upstairs, Enjolras lit a candle on the bedside table and, after changing into his nightclothes, sat back against the headboard, watching with interest as Combeferre cracked open the window and stripped off his own dressing gown and nightshirt.

The cool night breeze drifted in, and Combeferre breathed a sign of relief. Despite the paradoxical chills that accompanied his fever, the air was refreshing, whisking away some of the oppressive heat that seemed to emanate from within him. His head cleared somewhat of the fog of illness, and he closed his eyes, relaxed.

Just as he was beginning to think that this Doctor Currie’s hypothesis was an admirable one, he heard a lady’s gasp from somewhere outside, and a man’s hearty laugh. He froze for a moment and then, moving faster than he ever had in his life, turned and dove into bed beside Enjolras, flushed with embarrassment now rather than fever. He had been so intent on trying the treatment of cold that he had forgotten something very important: Enjolras’ bedroom window faced directly out onto the street below

To his credit, Enjolras did not laugh aloud at all of this, but when he turned to wrap Combeferre in a comforting embrace, he was shaking with suppressed mirth, biting the inside of his cheek.

“I didn’t think-“ said Combeferre, laughing now through his embarrassment, and then beginning to cough. “For- for shame! It’s your house. You might- might have warned me!”

“I’m sorry — I didn’t think of it either,” said Enjolras, smiling now and rubbing his back. As Combeferre’s cough subsided, he pulled him close against his chest.

“Perhaps you were distracted.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras shifted to press his lips against Combeferre’s neck. “Perhaps if I was not so concerned about you catching a chill, I would suggest you forgo your nightshirt.”

“It did seem to help my fever,” said Combeferre, even as heat pooled in his belly. He turned his head to return Enjolras’ kiss, but was choked by a cough again, and was forced to roll away as his body was seized with it.

This effectively ended any playfulness between them. The uneasiness was back in Enjolras’ voice as he said softly, “Perhaps you ought to take more laudanum, if you think your stomach can endure it. I do not particularly care for its effects, but it seemed to help you yesterday. It will ensure you sleep well, at least.”

“All- All right.”

After taking the dose of laudanum poured out for him, Combeferre shivered unpleasantly as Enjolras helped him back into his nightshirt. Even the soft fabric left a trace of pain where it touched his skin, and he burrowed into the bedclothes, trying to get comfortable. Enjolras cast a closed look down at him for a moment before extinguishing the candle and drawing the covers over them both.

For a long while, the pair merely lay side by side. Enjolras was not asleep. Combeferre watched him as he lay on his back, eyes staring up at the ceiling, plainly lost in thought. He wished he could have said something more to him, something to ease his mind, but the laudanum was having an effect already, slowing his thoughts and relaxing his body. All Combeferre could do to offer comfort was to reach a hand over, to entwine their fingers, both hands resting together on Enjolras’ stomach. The last, blurred image he saw before sleep claimed him was Enjolras’ face turned towards him, marked entirely by an expression of warm and helpless tenderness.

* * *

The following day, Combeferre was half roused by the creak of the bedroom door opening, and quiet footsteps across the floor towards him. Before he could open his eyes, the bed dipped under Enjolras’ weight, and he felt lips pressed to his forehead.

He stretched, trying to rid himself of the torpor of a very deep sleep. “What time is it?”

“Nearly two in the afternoon,” said Enjolras, sitting next to him.

“So late! You should have woken me.”

“I believe I just did.” Enjolras smiled, and smoothed a lock of hair from Combeferre’s forehead, a gesture which could only result in instant forgiveness. “I thought more sleep would do you good, and perhaps I was right. Your voice sounds better at least.”

“I do feel much better,” said Combeferre, and he grasped Enjolras’ arm to tug him down into an embrace. “I don’t feel as though I am going to erupt in a fit of coughing, at any rate.”

Enjolras’ eyes danced, and he reached a hand up to run his fingers through Combeferre’s hair. His other hand was resting heavy on Combeferre’s thigh. It made Combeferre warmer still, a warmth that was not his fever, and he longed to press up into it, to ask Enjolras to move it just a little bit higher. The more reasonable part of his mind told him that Enjolras would not acquiesce until he was better, and so he contented himself with leaning up to press a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek.

“Won’t you get up?” asked Enjolras, though he did not pull back from Combeferre’s embrace. “I know there is still more you would like to do, and we have time today, after you eat something.”

“Yes.” Combeferre had given it some thought, and guessed that Enjolras would be wholly in agreement with what he had in mind. “I had another idea.”

“We can do it,” said Enjolras, rising at last and holding out a hand to help Combeferre out of bed. “Whatever it might be. But first, you need to eat.”

As on the previous day, Combeferre soon found himself ensconced in blankets in the sitting room as Enjolras went out to fetch something for a late luncheon. This time, however, he was less bogged down by illness. Whether it was the long night’s sleep or whether the laudanum was still having some effect on the influenza, he did not know, but he was feeling well enough to even gaze up cheerfully at the painting of the rotund and rosy-cheeked ten-year-old hanging above him.

The present day Enjolras arrived back at the house in due time, and caught him smiling at his younger self’s portrait. He gave Combeferre a sullen sort of look, and it so well mirrored the painting that Combeferre could not hold back a laugh.

“I was merely admiring this masterpiece,” said Combeferre, cheered even more that his laugh did not end in a spasm of coughing.

“I am pleased it amuses you,” said Enjolras. He did not smile, but the equivalent of one shone in his eyes as he laid out his purchases on the sopha table. “Here we are. The fruit vendors were particularly well-stocked today, and I found Saint-Marcellin cheese for you, as it is your favorite.”

Combeferre had barely noticed his lack of appetite during the past several days, but it returned in full force now. They ate until they were quite stuffed, but still found room for a piece of the tarte tatin Enjolras had also procured.

“I do believe this is _your_ favorite, Enjolras,” Combeferre said through a large bite of the dessert. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were using my infirmity as an excuse to indulge.”

“Apples are healthful, are they not?” Enjolras had quickly finished his piece and eyed the rest of the pastry for a moment before deciding against a second. He set his plate aside. “Speaking of which — how would you like to proceed with your experiment today?”

There was the barest note of trepidation in his voice, which made Combeferre only too happy to reply, “I had wanted to try something my mother used to make whenever my sister and I were sick as children. She had all sorts of recipes for lozenges. They were always a bit of a treat to make being ill a little more tolerable, and helped pain and congestion of the throat besides. It is decidedly not a cure, but-“ He shrugged.

Enjolras smiled. “It sounds worlds more pleasant than purgatives and mustard plasters. We can certainly make lozenges. Do you know a recipe?”

“By heart,” said Combeferre.

They absconded to the kitchens once more. Combeferre’s symptoms were beginning to return somewhat, but they were mild, easy enough to ignore as they talked and laughed, measuring out sugar and gum arabic, mixing Spanish licorice and water before blending anise-seed oil into the whole and cutting it into small cubes. The greatest victory from this, thought Combeferre, was not whether the lozenges abated his illness, but that Enjolras seemed lighter, so much less careworn than he had in days.

“There we are,” said Combeferre, arranging the finished lozenges apart from each other on a baking tray. “They just need to dry and then-“

He was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. They looked at each other, and then dashed as one to the front of the house. As they were hurrying down the hall, whoever was outside knocked again, an anxious insistence behind it. As a precaution, Enjolras peered through the window beside the door briefly before opening it.

At last, it was Bernard.

“It’s here,” he said, without preamble.

“I’ll come,” said Enjolras immediately. “It’s at the workshop?”

“Yes, all of it.”

“I’ll have to get dressed,” said Combeferre, suddenly embarrassed. He had been so eager to learn of their supplies that he had quite forgotten he was still in a dressing gown. “Just give me a moment-“ But Enjolras cut him off with a shake of the head.

“No. You are in no state-“

“I’m fine, really! Well enough to help you.”

“I won’t have your improvement undone. Combeferre, please — go upstairs to bed. Rest, and I’ll come back once all is completed.”

* * *

Combeferre lay in bed for some time, too expectant of Enjolras’ return to contemplate sleep. Though he had been feeling much better even just an hour earlier, some of his congestion and aches were returning, leading him to believe that it was only a good night’s sleep that had improved his health. None of their treatments had worked, it seemed, as anything more than a temporary alleviation. No conclusions could be drawn, he supposed — or at least nothing that would markedly help his patients.

Where he had started the day cheerful, his mood had soured with the return of his symptoms, mild though they were, and without Enjolras’ presence to distract from them. Surely, by now, he and Bernard would have been able to transport so small a volume of supplies from the workshop to the house. Was the shipment much larger than expected? Were they waylaid, or worse, had they been detected by the gendarmerie? Combeferre could not guess, and as the hours ticked by, one terrible possibility after another chased each other around in his mind.

At last, after it was truly dark and he had been obliged to light the bedside candle, he heard a creak, followed by familiar footsteps up the stairs. He sat up a bit straighter in bed, and Enjolras entered quietly. Though his face betrayed nothing of where he had been for so long, nor of what had happened, he looked worn to Combeferre. He was clad only in shirtsleeves, his waistcoat rumpled and brow glowing with sweat as though he had been busy carrying a great many heavy things.

“Is all settled?” asked Combeferre, ignoring the ache in his muscles as he got to his feet. “Is everything all right?”

Enjolras flashed a small smile. “Yes — but I will tell you about it later. Come with me. I have something for you.”

Curious, Combeferre did as he was asked, and followed Enjolras down the stairs. Enjolras led him down the hall, past the parlor and towards the kitchens at the back of the house. Instead of venturing all the way down, he came up short and opened a door on the right, leading to a room Combeferre had never been before.

When Enjolras opened the door, warm, humid air wafted out, caressing Combeferre’s face. The room was small, with only one shuttered window overlooking the back garden of the house. In the center of it stood a modestly sized bathtub filled with water, steam rising gently from the surface. On a wooden chair nearby rested a fresh dressing gown.

“What’s all this?” said Combeferre, touched beyond measure that Enjolras had taken the time to perform the backbreaking labor of carrying and heating so much water just for him.

“There is a treatment you have overlooked,” said Enjolras, taking him by the hand and leading him into the room. “Come, settle yourself and I will tell you everything that has happened.”

“What made you think of this?” asked Combeferre, as he slipped his nightshirt over his head and allowed Enjolras to help him step into the tub. He settled back, the warm water rising to cover his chest. Already, the steam was opening his lungs, allowing him to breathe more freely.

“I simply thought it would make you feel better,” said Enjolras, not quite meeting his eye. He let go of Combeferre’s hand only long enough to drape the dressing gown over the back of the chair before sitting. “When I was very small, my mother would give me a hot soak when I was ill. It always seemed to help.”

Combeferre knew it would be the comfort of the company as much as the effects of the bath that improved his illness now, but he said nothing of it, merely smiling and bringing Enjolras’ hand to his lips. “I can’t thank you enough. But tell me — what happened with the stonemasons?”

“There is nothing much to report.” It must have been the heat of the room that made Enjolras’ cheeks so red, for Combeferre could not flatter himself to think that after nearly a year, a simple kiss on the hand would cause Enjolras to flush so. “In this case, that is good news indeed. The men who were transporting the supplies are used to traveling along the road from Langogne; they supply our masons with tools and materials they typically use.”

“Less illicit materials, you mean,” said Combeferre, smiling. He sank a little lower in the bath, noticing his aches were significantly lessened.

Enjolras inclined his head. “They used their usual old cart, which had made the journey countless times before, but they were unlucky. The cart broke an axel and the nearest cartwright could not repair it speedily.”

“Nothing ever seems to be repaired on time, if one is in a rush to have it done,” said Combeferre. “But I take it they arrived at last? Do we have our supplies?”

“We have everything.” Whether consciously or not, Enjolras briefly tightened his grip on Combeferre’s hand. “We were not expecting much and we do not have much, but it is something. Easily hidden in our luggage when we travel back to Paris. Enough to add a great many cartridges to Courfeyrac’s collection — he will be pleased about that. Bernard helped me store it all away in the kitchen.”

“It’s all settled, then. I wish I could have helped you more.”

“You helped organize the whole endeavor, and apart from that there was not much more to be done. It was more important that you recover — I won’t have you ill.” Enjolras paused, and stirred up the bath water with his free hand. “You could not help further, and so you tried to make use of yourself elsewhere, through your science. It is something I admire in you, that determination to help others even when you are at your most low.”

Touched as he was by these words, Combeferre could not help frowning a little. “But _did_ we help anyone?”

Enjolras pressed his hand. “Sometimes failures are inevitable. The only thing we can do is keep trying, and believe the failure opens the way to yet greater success.”

Their eyes met, but only briefly, and after a moment of silence they relaxed a little and talked of lighter things.

Later on, when the bath water had cooled at last, Enjolras rose from his seat to help Combeferre out of the tub, then wrapped the dressing gown around his shoulders.

“There,” he said, drawing the front of the fabric more securely across Combeferre’s chest. He raised his hands, smoothing the folds at Combeferre’s shoulders. “Are you feeling any better now?”

“Yes.” Indeed, he did at last; the bath had made him warm and comfortable, and not nearly so pained. Combeferre glanced back at the tub with a hint of mock regret. “It is a pity the tub is not large enough for two.”

Enjolras smiled. “A pity, yes. But since you are ill, it would be best if it wasn’t.”

“Did I not tell you I was feeling better?” Combeferre leaned up for a kiss, his chest flooding with affection as Enjolras wrapped his arms around him. “In fact, I think I have found myself quite well.”

“Perhaps your scientific teachings have worked on me, if I have managed to discover a cure.” Enjolras was already breathless, which only made Combeferre determined to make him more so.

He cupped Enjolras’ face in his hands and kissed him again, drawing him back to press him against the wall. Enjolras pulled him along with him, his fingers curled into Combeferre’s shoulders. Combeferre broke the kiss only long enough to trail his lips across Enjolras’ jaw, and then lower. A scrape of teeth against his neck made Enjolras’ grip on Combeferre’s shoulders tighten, and from there it was nothing to work open the placket of Enjolras’ shirt and press open-mouthed kisses to the warm skin of his chest, his collarbones, at the hollow of his throat.

“Upstairs to bed,” Enjolras managed to say, between gasps.

“More bedrest for my recovery?” laughed Combeferre, pulling back to look up into his face.

“No,” said Enjolras, and he tugged him out of the room and down the hall.

They only made it as far as the parlor. Combeferre had lost his dressing gown somewhere along the way, and they collapsed together onto a chaise longue, panting and laughing as they struggled to remove the rest of Enjolras’ clothes. Though the bath had lessened his aches greatly, Combeferre knew he wasn’t truly better. But whatever illness remained was easy enough to ignore now, with Enjolras beneath him, a flush high on his cheeks as they both fumbled with the fall of his trousers. When, at last, that last scrap of clothing was tossed away, Combeferre forgot completely he had ever been ill. Enjolras’ gentle, insistent ministrations, the low moans deep in his chest, the arc of his throat and the part of his lips as Combeferre touched him — Combeferre was convinced that this could cure any ailment. In the midst of everything, awash with Enjolras’ eagerness as he put Combeferre’s hand exactly where he wanted it, Combeferre wondered if he had been looking forward to their week alone in more ways than one — whether he, like Combeferre, had been hoping for a repeat of their previous visit here together. Despite the setbacks, Combeferre was pleased to be able to give a little of that to him now, and it was not until the end of it all, when Enjolras shuddered and gasped into the crook of his neck, that Combeferre was truly satisfied.

They lay for a long while afterwards, heedless of the warmth of the room, curled up in each other’s arms. His aches dim and breathing clear for now, Combeferre was so comfortable, his head tucked on a cushion near Enjolras’, that he could hardly keep his eyes open. He was only dimly aware of the cloth procured to clean them, to Enjolras turning his head to press a kiss to his brow — too tired to even smile up at the adorable portrait of the cherubic boy gazing sullenly down at them. Combeferre could only nestle closer to Enjolras, warm and content, before a deep and peaceful sleep came at last.


End file.
